


Turn The Page

by chemm80



Series: Body Work 'Verse [5]
Category: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t have that kind of relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn The Page

Dean stares at the name displayed on his caller ID. He’s not shocked, exactly. Jax has had his phone number for a while. He’s never used it, of course, and that’s what’s odd about the call, not the fact that Dean was only about half an hour outside Charming when it came. And not because he was actually thinking about Jax, wondering what he was up to. Because they don’t have that kind of relationsh…thing…whatever.

Which is the main reason Dean snaps the phone open right before it goes to voicemail. Something must be wrong.

“Yeah,” he grunts, and gets silence for an answer. He’s getting ready to hang up, figuring it’s just a butt dial, when Jax speaks.

“Should never ‘a happened, man,” Jax slurs, and Dean alters his assessment to “drunk dial.”

“Jax…”

“Shoulda been there for you, shoulda stopped it…”

“Jax! What the hell are you…”

“But Imma fix this, I’ll _get_ Kyle for you…for _you_ , man…tear that motherfucker’s head off…”

Dean had plenty of early life training in the futility of reasoning with a drunk, and he’s not going to waste his time trying now. Attracting his attention for a second is probably the most he can hope for, judging from Jax’s slurred and nonsensical speech, his heavy breathing.

“Hey! Jax, listen to me…listen up for second,” he says, raising his voice a little.

“No, you listen, Ope…”

Dean’s got no idea who or what Jax is talking about, but it’s the fact that Jax apparently doesn’t even know who he’s talking _to_ that kind of bothers him. Jax has never struck him as the kind of guy who gets shit-faced for the hell of it. Losing control of your faculties is just stupid when you inhabit the kind of world that Jax does, which…well, Dean can relate.

But right now he’s losing patience. Jax obviously thinks he’s talking to somebody else anyway, and Dean should just hang up on his drunk ass right now so Jax can get on with calling whoever the fuck it is that he thinks he’s talking to in the first place, and start annoying _them_ with his incomprehensible bullshit instead.

That’s exactly what he should do.

“Jax…hey, listen, where are you? I’ll come over there, we’ll talk about this, okay?”

“Talking’s done, man, fucking done!” Jax yells, at a volume high enough to cause Dean to wince away from his phone.

“Okay, okay, take it easy…just tell me where you are and we’ll take care of it, whatever you want, yeah?” Dean says.

“Yeah…um, okay…I guess. ‘M at the cemetery,” Jax mumbles, and Dean’s relieved. It’s one of the few landmarks in Charming that he knows, which is good because he doubts very much that Jax is capable of giving him any kind of meaningful directions to anywhere else right now.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes, Jax. You sit tight. Don’t go anywhere,” Dean orders, and lays his foot down hard on the gas pedal.

***

Dean’s been in a hell of a lot of cemeteries and the Charming Garden of Memories isn’t a particularly large one, but that doesn’t mean finding one very drunk biker in the middle of all the trees and tombstones in the dark is easy. He’s driven up and down every goddamned road in the place at least twice when his spotlight finally glints off something metal on the ground in front of a medium-sized mausoleum.

He pulls over and gets out of the car, checking over his shoulder by reflex. It’s deathly quiet here, pun totally intended, to the point that he’s thinking Jax must have ignored his instructions to stay put and wandered off somewhere.

But that’s definitely a Harley on the ground, resting quietly on its side, engine completely cool, so it’s been there a while. It doesn’t seem to be damaged from what Dean can tell by flashlight, but he’s pretty sure that laying it over on the ground like that is some sort of Samcro sacrilege. He wonders briefly if Jax will have to ceremonially burn it now, or something.

It takes him another minute or two to locate Jax, laid out spread-eagle under a tree a few yards away. Dean sighs heavily and trudges over to him.

Jax flinches slightly when the beam of the flashlight hits his eyes, but he seems basically intact by Dean’s poorly illuminated inspection, no obvious blood or limbs at odd angles. Just stinking drunk.

“Hey, man…” Dean starts, leaning over him. He’s about to put his hand on Jax’s shoulder when he makes a sharp movement—sneaky bastard—has his belt knife flipped from the sheath into his hand and pointed at Dean quicker than Dean would have credited. He jerks his face back in time, though, and twists the knife out of Jax’s hand easily.

So yeah…Jax is really, really drunk. He grunts and squints up at Dean.

“Dean?” he mumbles.

“Jim Beam?” Dean counters, jerking his face away from Jax’s whiskey-heavy exhalation.

“What’re you doin…”

“You called me, asshole,” Dean growls, already tired of playing inebriated twenty questions.

“Get up,” he says, sliding the knife into its sheath. He works an arm under Jax’s shoulders and hauls him upright.

Jax flails and staggers until he finally manages to get his feet under him and then leans against Dean, breathing wetly into his shoulder. He starts walking when Dean does, but they’ve only taken a few steps when he lists to one side, would have fallen down completely if Dean hadn’t made a mostly successful grab for his shoulder to steady him.

Jax barely manages to lean over before he’s vomiting noisily into the grass. Dean’s not completely sure Jax manages to miss his own shoes, but Dean keeps his boots well clear as he steadies him with a hand balled up in the back of his T-shirt.

“Yeah…you get it all out, ‘cause if you puke in my car, I’ll jam my fist down your throat. See if you can bring that back up…” Dean’s mutter trails off as Jax finishes, panting and spitting.

Dean waits out a couple more dry heaves, then slides his hand up Jax’s back, hooks his right forearm under his armpit and pulls him up. It brings his face almost even with Dean’s.

“Christ, you stink,” Dean says, turning his face away from his noxious breath. “If the sweetbutts could see their Prince of Charming now…gross.” He makes a face and starts moving them toward the Impala.

He spares the bike a glance over his shoulder, pretty sure Jax wouldn’t be happy about leaving it out here like this, but he figures it’ll be fine. Anybody in these parts who’d lay a hand on it with that Death’s head grinning from the side of the gas tank is obviously too stupid to live.

***

Dean doesn’t have too much trouble hauling Jax inside his house. Jax has regained enough consciousness to move at least partially under his own power and the front door isn’t locked. It’s not that uncommon in a town the size of Charming and it affirms his decision to leave Jax’s Harley behind, because no local is gonna mess with anything that belongs to the VP of the Sons.

Dean maneuvers Jax into his bedroom and more or less pours him facedown onto his unmade bed, which is strewn with dirty clothing and messy sheets that don’t look like they’ve been washed in a while. Jax is already snoring and Dean stands there a moment, not sure what to do next.

Rolling his eyes at Jax’s questionable taste in footwear for about the dozenth time, Dean leans over and pulls the white sneakers off Jax’s feet. He takes one last look around the room and shrugs. He figures he’s done his good deed for the day. Jax probably won’t die in a pool of his own vomit, not after everything he hawked up at the cemetery. There’s no reason for Dean to stay longer.

Except he is pretty tired, and as he heads up the hallway Dean’s debating whether to try to catch a short nap on the couch before he gets back on the road. A soft noise from across the room has him dropping into a defensive crouch, reaching for the gun he doesn’t have on him.

“Jesus Christ,” he blurts, as the flare of a cigarette lighter’s flame reveals the source of the sound.

“No need to get insulting,” Gemma says dryly, smirking at him from her seat at a small dining table across the room.

Dean takes a deep steadying breath, wipes his hand across his mouth.

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” she replies, unfazed. She reaches behind her and switches on a floor lamp, never taking her eyes off Dean.

He studies her face in the dim light. She lets him, expressionless, but something about the way she looks makes Dean thinks there’s something wrong anyway. She looks tired, and not for the first time he wonders what kind of fucked-up family drama he’s stumbled into. _No good deed goes unpunished_ , he thinks.

“Jax called me,” he states, thinking that the less he says, the better. It bugs him a little, the way he feels on the defensive, but Gemma just seems to have that effect on him.

Gemma frowns, raises an inquiring eyebrow.

“Jax called you…why?” she asks, voice controlled, but watching Dean intently, like his answer matters.

Dean’s irritated, but there doesn’t seem to be any point in antagonizing her, and telling her what she wants to hear might get him out of here faster than arguing, which he really doesn’t have the energy for anyway.

“I have no idea, ma’am. But he’s tucked all safe and sound in his little bed now, so I’ll just be on my way,” he says, and turns to leave.

“Dean,” Gemma says, firmly enough that Dean stops walking. “Sit down. Stay a minute. Please.”

He shouldn’t. There’s something going on here that he’s not getting, and he’s got a feeling it’s something he really, really doesn’t want to be involved in.

It’s the “please” that finally turns him around—that and the ragged edge he hears in her voice that belies her composure. He’s not really angry at Gemma; he’s mostly irritated with himself for getting into this situation in the first place. Dean sighs, turns around and sits down across from her.

She studies him for a bit and then sighs, too, relaxing slightly.

“Thank you. For bringing him home,” she says, her look softening with the words. “Jax is…well, he’s been having a hard time.”

Dean’s not sure what to say, what she wants from him, so he just raises his eyebrows, waits for her to continue. It takes a minute, and he’s starting to get a bit uncomfortable before she stubs out her cigarette and speaks again.

“Dean _Winchester_ , right?”

“Yeah…” Dean says slowly, questioningly, wondering where she’s going with this.

“Opie’s last name is Winston, that might be it…” she says, then nods, like she’s figured something out.

“Jax called me ‘Ope’ on the phone. Who the hell is Opie?” Dean asks.

“He’s the reason for Jax’s…state,” she replies, then pauses, studying Dean like she’s considering what to tell him.

“Opie is Jax’ best friend; they’ve been like brothers since they were little,” she finally says, with a look that makes Dean wish he’d just walked out the door before. He doesn’t want to hear this, but it’s too late.

“They took Opie to prison three days ago,” Gemma continues.

Which sucks, Dean gets that, but something about this doesn’t quite fit.

“Who’s Kyle?” he asks without preamble, in an attempt to catch her off guard.

It seems to work, as Gemma looks at him sharply.

“Why?” she demands.

Dean sighs. More cloak and dagger shit.

“Look, it doesn’t really matter to me. I didn’t want to get involved in your little Hell’s Angel drama in the first place, so I’ll just be on my way,” Dean says, starting to rise from his chair.

Gemma grabs his wrist, too hard and suddenly for his liking, and he grits his teeth, looks down at her hand and then back up to her face. She loosens her grip, but doesn’t let go.

“You listen to me,” she hisses. “That boy down the hall? Means _everything_ to me. I will do anything to protect him. If you make things worse for him, I _will_ make you regret it. You get me?

He does. There’s no question in Dean’s mind that she’s completely serious, and he imagines it’s not an empty threat. It’s not like Dean can’t relate to her passion for her family, either, but he’s not gonna just roll over. That’s not the way this works.

“Looks like you’re doing a bang-up job taking care of him,” he says coolly, with a small nod toward the bedroom.

“You watch your mouth with me, boy,” Gemma says, but she relaxes a little, lets go of him and sits back in her chair.

Gemma huffs out a breath and covers her face with both hands, rubs at her eyes. When she looks at him again, Dean thinks she looks about ten years older than when he first met her.

“Kyle’s the piece of shit got Opie caught. Let’s just leave it at that,” Gemma says. “He’s been thrown out of the club, taken care of.”

“Fate worse than death,” Dean says a little sarcastically, but Gemma looks at him sharply.

“It is, actually, but Jax doesn’t see it that way. Not yet. I’m afraid he’s going to go off half-cocked and do something really stupid.”

“He mentioned that. Something about tearing his head off, I think it was.”

“Shit. I figured, but he won’t talk about it, not to me…not to anyone,” Gemma says, tapping her nail against the table. Then she stops suddenly and looks hard at Dean.

Dean doesn’t like that look. There’s something fierce and ruthless in it, and her next words come out sounding like a warning.

“Except he’s talking to you, apparently. Now why is that?”

He raises his eyebrows, shows her his palms.

“Don’t look at me. I ain’t a shrink.”

“No. But you’re here,” she says. She fixes him with a penetrating look, then seems to make a decision.

“Jax has a lot on his shoulders, Dean. He doesn’t need any…distractions,” she says.

“Oh, is that what I am? I’ll remember that the next time he needs somebody to drag his sloppy ass home.”

Gemma doesn’t take the bait, just pushes on.

“What do you get out of this, Dean?” she asks, but not like she’s goading him; it’s more like she really wants to know.

Dean gets it then, what she’s asking, and he breathes a short laugh.

“Mrs. Morrow, I assure you that I have no intention whatsoever of making an honest man of your son.”

Gemma smirks.

“Yeah? Well you don’t strike me as a boy toy, even pretty as you are,” she says, and now she _is_ poking at him, looking for a reaction.

But that’s not really the problem. The problem is that she’s asking for answers that Dean doesn’t have. He’s got no idea what keeps drawing him back here. She’s right. There’s no reason for him to be here at all.

And this is the part where he should make a smart-ass remark, push her prying nose back where it belongs, but he can’t. His brain is running in circles, refusing to engage with his mouth, and he ends up stammering like an idiot.

“That’s not…I’m just…he’s a…”

Gemma’s face softens into an almost-smile as she considers him, watches him flounder. Then she leans forward and lays her hand on Dean’s knee. He doesn’t flinch, but it takes an effort.

“Darlin’ I think the word you’re looking for is ‘friend’.”

His face heats as he finally manages to shut up, and Gemma keeps watching him. Her smile seems a little sad.

After a moment she rises from her seat and leans over him, takes his face in both her hands. Her palms are soft and warm against his cheeks as she kisses him full on the mouth.

“Thank you,” she says. She smoothes one thumb against his cheekbone and adds, “Stay here tonight?” and she’s asking him now rather than demanding anything from him.

But she just gives him one last little smile, walks to the door and lets herself out without waiting for him to answer, which is just as well.

Dean’s got nothing.

**

Dean wakes to the sounds of morning-after misery coming from the bathroom. He lies on the ratty couch for a few seconds before he sits up and scrubs his hands over his face. He contemplates just leaving, not hanging around to hear whatever Jax has to say, but then Jax comes shambling down the hall. He’s in the approximate condition Dean was expecting—looks like ten miles of bad road.

He also doesn’t look all that happy to see Dean, but then Dean was expecting that, too.

“Mornin, Sunshine,” Dean says.

Jax flips him off and staggers to the kitchen, plugs a cigarette into his mouth and starts rummaging through drawers and cabinets. Dean watches him for a couple more minutes before he finally takes pity on him and tosses his own lighter at Jax.

Jax catches it and makes use of it, exhales a cloud of smoke before he finally looks at Dean again.

There are about a dozen things Dean could say, but none of them would change anything. He starts lacing up his boots.

“Let’s go get your bike.”

**

Jax is pale and surly on the ride to the cemetery, especially when Dean won’t let him smoke in the car. Dean buys him a cup of coffee on the way because he wants one himself, but he’s okay with how it seems to improve Jax’s mood a little, too.

And Dean should probably leave well enough alone, but then again, if he were that smart he wouldn’t be here at all. He clears his throat.

“So…I heard about your…um…Opie,” he says, pointedly keeping his eyes on the road.

Jax grunts.

“Your mom told me what happened,” Dean continues, still not looking at Jax.

Jax makes an exasperated noise, shakes his head.

“You don’t know anything about it.” Jax pauses. “Wait…what? You talked to my mom?”

“Well, it was more like she talked to me,” Dean says, glancing at Jax as he eases the Impala through the gates of the cemetery.

“I’ll bet,” Jax says, with a soft snort.

“She’s worried you’re gonna do something stupid,” and Dean finally turns to look at Jax square on. The stubborn set of his jaw makes Dean ask, “Is she right?”

“Look, Dean, you don’t even know…”

But whatever Jax was going to say gets cut off at the sight of his Harley, lying under the tree exactly as they’d left it the night before.

“You just _left_ it here? On the _ground_?” Jax says, completely scandalized.

Dean pulls the Impala to a stop and Jax vaults from the passenger seat with more energy than he’s shown all day.

“No, that would be your handiwork, genius. I’m the one who poured your alcoholic ass into my car and hauled you home.” Dean says, getting out after him. He pauses.

“So…you’re welcome.”

Jax gives Dean a murderous look before he squats beside the bike.

“You can’t leave it on the ground like this, asshole,” Jax says, throwing his shoulder under it and heaving it upright, grunting with the effort and muttering under his breath about dirt in the throttle, moisture in the manifold and so on, as he sets it up on its stand.

“Oh, I’m the asshole,” Dean says, humorless smirk twisting his mouth. “My mistake. Next time I’ll leave you on the ground with it, let you self-destruct in peace.”

Jax freezes for a second, then rounds on Dean.

“How is this any of your business? Why are you even still here?” Jax asks, voice deceptively soft, but his eyes are hot with anger.

It’s an excellent question. Dean decides he’s had more than his fill of this town and its not-so Charming inhabitants.

“Good point. Have a nice life,” Dean answers shortly and starts toward the Impala. He hears Jax coming up behind him but he doesn’t stop.

“Don’t you fuckin’ walk away from me,” Jax spits.

Dean turns at that, but he’s only half way around when Jax swings. His fist catches the point of Dean’s jaw, spins him back in the other direction.

Jax follows through and grabs Dean by the collar, but Dean has his feet under him now and he drives an uppercut into Jax’s gut, doubling him over. Dean raises up, yanks Jax upright and slams him against the side of the Impala.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Dean says, ready with a knee if Jax decides to push him on it. He doesn’t.

Instead Jax just sort of wilts into Dean, letting his forehead drop against Dean’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong with me?” Jax says into Dean’s collar. “So many things.”

Jax sounds wrecked, and he’s panting and shaking, and Dean holds him there—holding him up, maybe—waiting for Jax to pull himself together. He starts to calm down after a minute or two, but he doesn’t let go of Dean.

“This has to be the gayest thing we’ve ever done,” Dean mutters, finally.

Jax’s breathes a humid laugh against Dean’s neck.

“Pretty sure it doesn’t even make the top five,” Jax says.

He illustrates his point by pressing his face closer against Dean then, even as he spreads his legs apart and pulls Dean in between them. Jax takes a deep, shuddering breath and mouths at Dean’s neck, scrapes his unshaven cheek across the sensitive spot under Dean’s jaw and Dean shivers, grips Jax’s shoulders tighter, presses his hips forward.

Jax gives a rough chuckle and mumbles, “so fuckin’ easy” against Dean’s skin.

And yeah, he is easy for Jax, but he’s not really interested in looking too closely at why that is, not when Jax is running one hand up under Dean’s shirt and the other down the front of his jeans, palming his fast-growing erection. Jax rubs the heel of his hand against it and Dean groans, slides his hand across Jax’s shoulder to the back of his neck, tangling his fingers in Jax’s long hair.

Jax drags his mouth wetly down Dean’s neck, bites at the rise of his collarbone and Dean gasps, eyes going wide as he tilts his head back. That’s when it hits him—what they’re doing and where they’re doing it. There’s a tree and a couple of bushes between them and the main road, but it’s still pretty exposed here. Jax might be Charming’s favorite son, but that doesn’t mean the townsfolk are gonna be okay seeing him with his hand down another guy’s pants in broad daylight.

Dean grabs Jax’s wrist and holds it still, grunts when it makes Jax’s fingers tighten around his cock.

“Come on, Dean…let me,” Jax rasps, panting, then sinks his teeth into the meat of Dean’s shoulder.

“Hey, not tryin’ to stop you, just… _fuck_ …come on,” Dean says, disengaging Jax from his neck and reaching behind him for the Impala’s door handle. The door creaks open and Jax gets the idea, slides into the seat and scoots across it, pushing his jeans down as he does.

Dean takes a last look around and ducks inside, leaving the door open because there’s no other good way to fit two guys their size in the car. The cover of the bushes will have to be enough.

Dean climbs in over Jax and Jax is bare from his waist to his knees, already has his T-shirt hiked up and his hand wrapped around his cock, pulling slow as he watches Dean. He looks vulnerable and exhausted and _open_ and Dean has the strangest urge to soothe and pet him until that look goes away. It’s too weird, and he gives himself a mental shake, settles for pushing Jax’s hand away from his cock and leaning down to take it into his mouth.

He doesn’t go too far, just sucks gently around the head, tonguing it, sliding his lips up and down, slow and lazy. He keeps at it longer than he usually would because he likes the little abortive movements of Jax’s hips, the soft grunts, the words that slip from him… _oh_ and _fuck_ and _please_ …until he finally decides they need to move this along for the sake of discretion.

Dean pulls off, letting Jax’s cock slap red and wet against his tanned, flat belly, and Jax gives a little grunt, pushes his hair back from his face with both hands. Dean smiles a little at Jax all open-mouthed and flushed, so hard, so clearly aroused, before he reaches down, works one of Jax’s feet out of his shoe and jeans, and pushes the freed leg up toward his chest, spreading him open for Dean’s tongue.

Dean slides his thumb up under Jax’s balls, holding them up and pressing down hard enough to make Jax groan as he licks downward to his opening. He plays and teases, down and around and inside the tight rim, hating to hurry, but not wanting to hang around here long enough to get interrupted, either.

Dean finally drives his tongue inside Jax as far as he can, licking in and out, drooling, getting him as wet and open as he can, listening to Jax get noisier and more breathless above him. He works his way up Jax’s body then, licking up the crease of his thigh, and mouthing at Jax’s shaft as he goes, and Jax jerks and grunts at the contact.

Dean sits up and reaches over Jax, jams his thumb against the button on the glove compartment to make it fall open. Dean scrabbles inside for a second or two before coming up with a condom, then wastes no time opening it and rolling it on.

Jax doesn’t say anything or even change expression much as he watches Dean, but he undulates his hips against Dean’s thigh where it’s braced between Jax’s own and _fuck_. It’s hotter than fire and Dean groans at the sight and feel, can’t help squeezing his cock for a little relief.

Dean hooks his elbow under Jax’s outside leg then and pulls it high, spreading him open and pushing inside him. It’s slow, has to be, Jax is so tight, and they’re both grunting and sweating and shaking by the time he gets all the way in.

Dean watches Jax, waits until Jax nods, short and sharp. He takes three deep breaths in rapid succession and Dean can feel him relax then, like he’s done it by force of will, and Dean’s so fucking ready… _Jesus_. He starts to move and it’s so good, incredible, even before Jax arches hard under Dean, pressing his head back against the seat and his hips up into Dean’s.

Dean can’t stop looking at Jax’s exposed neck, wants to touch it, to taste, so he does, bracing his elbow against the car door and dipping his head to reach. He opens his mouth against Jax’s pulse, sucks hard and Jax groans and shivers, tilts his head to give Dean better access. Dean takes the opening, sucking the salt from his skin, biting hard enough to leave marks, suddenly possessive, making slow, hard thrusts inside Jax that connect them, if just for the moment.

Jax is trembling almost violently now, grunting and panting in rhythm with the impact of their bodies. He lifts a hand to where their hips touch and Dean arches away a little so Jax can work his hand between them and curl it around his cock. It’s so much sensation—the feeling of Jax squeezing tight around him, the taste of his skin, his musky hot scent, backs of his fingers brushing against Dean’s stomach as he strokes himself—Dean’s lost in it, doesn’t care who sees; he couldn’t stop now if he wanted to.

Dean shakes with the effort of waiting for Jax, poised on the edge of orgasm, until Jax finally makes a strangled groan and pulses hot over his own hand, coming wet and slick on Dean’s belly, squeezing Dean’s cock in his ass, inner muscles impossibly tight.

Dean’s helpless to stop the sharp, hurt sound that bursts from him then, can’t do anything but follow Jax over the edge, pleasure spiraling up through his body, mind-blowing.

He pants, eyes closed, only realizes that he’s sitting back on his heels and that Jax’s legs are wrapped around him when Jax starts trying to disentangle himself, has to stifle a noise of protest at the separation. Dean keeps his eyes closed, catching his breath, as he hears Jax start to pull himself together.

Jax is sitting silently next to him in the Impala’s passenger seat when Dean gets his own pants up. He settles behind the steering wheel and stills, both of them staring straight head, neither of them speaking for long moments.

Finally Jax puts a hand out and gives Dean’s shoulder a firm squeeze. Then he exits the Impala from the passenger side, shuts the door and stands leaning back against it.

Dean has the feeling that there’s something else he should do or say but he’s got no idea what it should be, so he just sits in the driver’s seat, waiting. After a few seconds he sees a cloud of smoke blow away from where Jax is standing. Still he waits.

Eventually Jax finishes his cigarette. Dean watches him from the Impala’s open driver’s door as he walks toward his Harley, lays a hand on the handlebars, flicks away a stray piece of something.

Dean wonders how long Jax is going to just stand there looking at that damned bike, looking lost.

He wonders how long he’s going to just sit on his ass watching him do it.

_Fuck this._

Dean gets out of the car and walks over to Jax, who doesn’t turn around. It’s ridiculous after what they just did, but he has to make himself reach out and lay a hand on the back of Jax’s neck, squeezing lightly.

“Look, I know how you feel,” Dean says. “It sucks to lose...somebody…but I can…” He stops, takes a breath. “Well…I’m just sorry, man.”

Jax nods.

He’s still not looking at Dean, but after a bit he asks, “Seen your brother lately?”

There’s really not a simple yes or no answer that covers that, so Dean just shakes his head.

Jax reaches over his own shoulder, grasps Dean’s wrist and pulls Dean’s arm forward, drawing their two bodies flush together, chest to back. It surprises Dean at first, but he’s pretty much beyond caring about what they look like, and he can’t fix this for Jax, can’t fix anything. He squeezes back, holding Jax in a sort of awkward one-armed hug.

“You gonna be all right?” Dean asks after a minute.

It takes him so long that Dean doesn’t think he’s going to answer at all.

“Yeah,” Jax says finally. “I’m…you just try not to get yourself killed, okay?”

Dean takes a deep breath, blows it out. He nods.

“Yeah. You, too.”

Dean opens his hand against Jax’s chest and pats him twice, then he slides his arm out of Jax’s loose grip and walks away.

He doesn’t check the Impala’s mirrors as he drives off—most times, most places, there’s nothing much worth looking at in his rearview—but he hears well enough the growl of the big Harley’s engine as it roars to life.

He smiles.


End file.
